So about the depression food I blogged about in my last entry…  

I was wrong! 

I had made a bunch of delicious experimental popovers and was sure that I had to throw them out and was freezing them in vain. But guess what I’m chewing on now! Yup. A re-warmed popover. And you know what? It’s still crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside. Although the chewiness is a little more prominent than it was before, but I think I might like it that way. 

Today, someone sent me a pot of poinsettias.  They were beautiful. They were in a sturdy reusable shopping bag and there was a little handwritten note attached to it on a small index card folded over itself. It was from the father of one of my graduates. And also inside the bag was a little cardboard box filled with little snacks that you would pack for your “I miss you while you’re in college” daughter. Little snack bags of Cheetos (my favorite!), peanuts, some Fritos, and a little ramen packet. I didn’t care that it was chicken flavored. I broke down and cried. 

I must’ve had a lot of pent up tears inside, because let me tell you, lo! it was like the floodgates opened. I wept. 

I wept about the thought that someone out there cared about me. That as much as I was pouring myself out and caring for these kids, that someone also thought to care about me. I wept at the feeling of being a child again, and the feelings of innocence and hope it used to carry that came rushing back. I wept at the idea that maybe, must maybe, this world wasn’t such an alienating place and that I could stick my feet out and be taken care of. I wept at all the stress and pain I’ve been through the past few months and how the past few days have been a balm of Gilead for me. I wept at the fact that I could finally love my kids and love my job again, and that it wasn’t all in vain, and that I am making a difference…  

This crying session didn’t last the 3 minutes it usually does. And I let myself do it. Thanking God for preserving me, as He always does. For protecting me and taking care of me better than anyone ever could, and better than I’ve attempted to do for myself. There’s a lot in this world I have yet to learn, and a lot of things I’ll continue to be wrong about. But with God within me, and beside me, and over me, what have I to fear? What will separate me from the love of God?

My heart can only respond in gratitude and utter humility. Because I did nothing to deserve it, and I had nothing to offer or promote it.

Funny how little gestures can impact a life, eh?

Do something nice for a teacher who impacted your life. I’m telling you, it’s what we live for.

 <insert gratuitous picture of a baby crying>

Depression food uses the staples. Flour. Egg. Milk. Salt. I think most of those things are luxuries in a depression. At least it doesn’t call for much butter (although I added some, not Paula Dean style, however.) Popovers are like depression food having a little party for itself. It’s simple, small, but it looks huge. It kinda blows up in the oven but the actual content… mostly air… 

I’ve been resorting to compulsions. Weird routines (actually, no routines.) Pistachios. Baking. Avoidance. Weird fits of… stuff. It’s all very messy. What’s happening to me? 

I made gluten-free brownies again for my kids (I’m thinking I’ll give them something every day of the week until break comes, or until I break.) I made experimental popovers. They were perfect. But I have nothing to do with the whole batch but to freeze them, and ultimately I will have to throw them out (I know my own habits. These are true depression popovers. ) I am planning to make spinach pinwheels for guests on Friday (I’m skipping the popovers bc it would seem like carb overload since I’ll probably make banana bread as well.) I just want to bake and cook and bake and cook but I totally lost my appetite. I don’t want to eat anything I make. I stopped coming home for lunch. These babies do not have the siren call loud enough for me to heed… especially if they have to be reheated. 

I think I’m losing my mind. I won’t let myself count down because 6 full days is still too long. I feel as though I’m holding my head above a rapidly rising water level and the water is starting to ripple into my nostrils. It doesn’t help that I saw that movie.. 127? Something? Hours. The one where the guy gets his arm caught in a boulder and he hacks it off with a dull blade (uh, I’d say spoiler alert, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a surprise.) He says it’s like his whole life was gearing towards that moment. Destiny. I don’t believe in that kind of life. I do believe, however, in Interventions. And Help. And… hope. And if that comes in the form of a dull blade… so be it? Is that how it’s supposed to work? Is cutting through that nerve bundle worth it? I guess you’d never know until you’ve tried. Analogies fail when you try to apply it to real life. Sometimes a rock is just a rock. 

This year was supposed to be the Year of Yes, and instead it is turning into the Year of BLT. BareLy There. That’s right. Nothing to do with bacon. And the “ly” is so powerful it’s capitalized within the word. I think I’ve tripped over myself so many times, and I am starting to distrust every other decision I’ve been making… I feel as though I’m moving on, but without my arm, or leg, or something I always thought I needed. Does He know what He’s doing? Or am I just stupid?  

 I changed my layout. Just a little. Reflective of the mood. Goodbye yellow Gerbera. Hello, winter. In the meantime, I am hanging in. And waiting. And hoping. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” 

Are the promises of God something bankable? Worth staking bets on? Worth taking risks for? When God says that He can heal the broken-hearted, is that real? What does it mean to believe that? How does it look like, even?

In Luke 6, the parallel statement is, “Blessed are ye that weep now, for you shall laugh.” I was so taken aback by this that I searched through various versions of the verse (v 21) and found that the key words are the same. Weep. Laugh. 

Is that the right words of comfort to tell someone who’s crying? “There, there. Someday, you’ll laugh again.” I mean, I’ve “bootstrapped” it before, but I doubt the passage is telling people to just deal with it and get over it. Why are these people weeping? Because they lost someone/something they loved? Because they’re distraught with sin? Because their donkey stepped on their toe?

And what is this “blessedness”? When does it happen? What does the word “now” apply to? (“Blessed are ye now…” as in, you are blessed now, or “Blessed are ye that weep now,” as in you might be currently weeping?) 

All this to say that sometimes, life sucks. It finds us cowering in a corner or (even worse) stone-facedly roboting it through the day. Sometimes, it demands too much of you. It’s like getting calls from the creditors. Always reminding you of what you owe, what you lack, and the sacrifices you have to make. (Not that I’ve received these kinds of calls, but it’s empathizable.) 

Luke’s version also says, “Blessed are you who are poor.” (versus Matthew’s “poor in spirit.”) And what if we are poor because we gave it all to God? Is it worth the wait? Or does this also happen “now”? 

This is the rich young ruler, who could not be poor for God. Could not give it up. Could not risk what was tangibly his. And then the intangible spiritual poverty might also come from this. From having stuff taken, or from giving it all away. He could not face the fear of surrender. The fear of becoming poor, useless, needy. 

Why are the poor poor? I guess even as there are different levels and reasons for poverty in the realm of society, there are different levels and reasons for poverty spiritually. I doubt Christ meant “poor” as a blanket statement. 

Speaking of poverty, I am definitely not poor in terms of pistachios. The shelling (and eating) of these nuts are bordering on compulsion. I even have a hand-made pistachio nut disposal made out of paper on my desk (ingenious in its simplicity, really, in my honest opinion.) This recent addiction is, I think, I coping mechanism. At least it’s keeping me away from worse habits. 

Blessed is she who shells pistachios now, for she shall be comforted.

I had to revise this from: Blessed is she who shells pistachios now, for someday, she may realize that it was the right thing to do. 

I don’t want to live in the “someday’s” or “may’s” with God… but I realize I do it. I cling to my narrow vision of the present and rob myself of what I can have in the now. It is a scary thing to choose to be happy? Is that even possible, in the midst of pain? Am I sounding super dramatic? Will I be ok?

Yes, yes, and yes. And yes. 

In the meantime, I am very close to the 45 nuts that the container says is the serving size.

And it’s not even noon yet.

I’ve realized something.

This school year, I’ve been mucking it. I’m not quite sure what mucking involves, but I know it involves big boots and a lot of grime. I’ve been on survival mode since the summer, and really, I don’t think I’ve recovered fully from some of the late Spring trauma that came this way. And how it seemed to last forever. And the realization it took to get me out of the pit. But the scum is still under my nails. No, it’s somewhere in my heels and I’m dragging it around. And around. And around. I’m stronger, but still faltering. 

And yet, it’s ok. I know the trajectory of my flailings and although it’s not clean, and straight, and uncomplicated as I would like it to be, it’s ok. Me and Him… we’re gonna make it. And if these are lessons, come. Do it. I always grew and (sigh, in faith,) I will look forward to learning more. And lately, it’s not been so bad. There has been moments when everything is clear again. (Although it’s been rough recently. Blame it on Sucktober. See prev post. Or was it the post before that? Eh. Who cares. It’s NOVEMBER.)

Sanity is like a herd of cows. (Pun intended.) “Coming to oneself,” is like the cows coming home. Cows and dogs and sheep and goats. Except the moment the door opens again, out they go, gallivanting into the green green grass, deaf to the commands to stay put. Except for the dog, who hears and decides not to obey… And usually, it’s the darkness that calls them. These are not your nyctophobic quadrupeds… 

So I’m missing a few cows. And basically, they’re out all day. Chompin’ on the grass. Pooping on the lawn. Hanging out in some various other state/country/Canada far away. Hiking in the foothills of Shenandoah. Learning new languages on Rosetta Stone when it should be me learning Portuguese and German and Italian… the goats and sheep are out too… and the dogs… well, by this point it should be clear that I’m struggling with maintaining something important up there. 

But, as this site’s title implies, God owns the cattle on a thousand hills. And all my lost cows are His. I am also assuming that He owns the cowbell, or whatever these people use to call the cows home. So. In the meantime. I will wait, and do my best, and realize that the human heart and mind and mood are really poor indicators of what’s real. Self-reports, as I’m learning even from my own declarations, are ever the more further off the mark. 

I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss… a lot of things. And I desire a lot of things. Like for this year to be over. The whole school year. Bam. Now. 

But if I can remind myself of not just tomorrow, but the dreams of tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow…. I can do this. My net is cast far. I guess it’s like riding a bike… I’ve been wobbling over the pebbles I’m trying to avoid, but perhaps… perhaps if I look up, it’ll be ok. Or, I could wipe out, forget to unclip, and splatter myself all over the road. And you know what? I think that won’t be the end of the world. 

I’ve been writing more. That’s either a bad sign or a good sign. (But not a useless one.) 

And if you find a cow or two ambling around that belongs to me, please return it. I’d be grateful. I’m pretty sure there’s one up in Michigan that I’d like to claim in person. Until then…..

 Don’t eat me…

I was singing the hymn, Jesus Cares. You know, the one that goes, We have heard the joyful sound: Jesus cares, Jesus cares! Spread the tidings all around: Jesus cares, Jesus cares. Bear the news to every land, climb the mountains, cross the waves; Onward! ’tis our Lord’s command; Jesus cares, Jesus cares. 

OK, except the words are really Jesus Saves, but I didn’t realize that til right about the time I started writing out the lyrics. 

So, back to the TH Diaries. It’s been a while. I promise, the whole hymn thing is applicable. (If you’re wondering what “TH” stands for, it’s super top secret, so… you won’t find it. Heh heh. Alls you need to know is that it’s about me hitting the road. Literally.) 

I started running again. Since yesterday. It’s difficult to say no to perfect fall weather running. And I mean, perfect. Yesterday, on my quick run, I had one objective: enjoyment. I didn’t care about the time, didn’t care about the mileage, didn’t care about the fact that I hadn’t eaten… my body had been screaming for some time: Run me! And although that call is very confusing coming from someone like me, I obeyed. I think my body remembers the adrenaline rush and started to crave it. And also because there’s a lot I needed to get off my chest. 

There are some people who like to be occupied when they run. Music, conversation, thoughts. When I run, I just like to be. I like to breathe. I like to smile and talk to myself. I like to pretend I’m having conversations (today, Oksana ran with me! We had a good talk and some laughs.) I like to close my eyes and feel the wind through my ponytail and the air going through my lungs. I like the feel of the breeze. I like to let my thoughts just work themselves out or fly out behind me. I feel that if you’re miserable, it’s not worth it. (Sometimes it’s the right kind of misery, though.) 

It was a beautiful day. And even more beautiful were the hills. They’re positively orange/red, and in the setting sun, they looked even more blazing. The air was cool… and quiet. Peaceful. I was so zoned out I didn’t even hear my own footfalls. I closed my eyes and just let myself go. (This only works when there’s a straight trail ahead.) I figured I’d stop when I couldn’t go anymore. 

I didn’t need Oksana’s griping. I didn’t need food. A canteen of water and chia seeds worked out just fine. It was marvelous. I don’t know how far I went in total, or how much time it took. It was fun. I want to go again. 

Today was community service day at our school. It’s a nice day apart. And I love doing community service. Nothing better to get things in perspective than when you’re helping others. And once in a while, manual labor is awesome. I’ll be achy tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it. I was raking and weeding and chilling with my students and I realized that this was exactly what I needed. Blue skies, peace, and perspective. And now I’m home. Early. It feels good. 

Tonight will be Bible Study, and people, and friends. 

(Thought you’d never see that picture again, huh? Guess what! I thought I’d never be such a running snob that I’d notice that her posture is all wrong… She’s setting herself up for injury…  Forefoot strike it, girlfriend!)

There’s a lot in life that I would like to get a handle on. Because this Christianity thing… what is it if it’s not lived out? If I can’t take this overabundance of love I’ve discovered in my heart and let it work through me and change me? If I won’t take hold of the promises of this Man that I’ve committed to follow? What is my life if I do not live what I believe? Don’t I believe? Yes, yes I do.

And yes, all this while raking. I’m telling you, it’s good stuff.

If I could be as lucid as I am now than when the sun isn’t shining, and the sky isn’t blue, and the weather isn’t perfect…  

But if my life attests to anything, it’s that Jesus cares. About me. 

It still breaks me inside to think about why, and what He had to do to reach me. To change me into someone who I actually don’t mind being alone with. Someone who has peace. I never thought I’d have it. And that He cares enough to keep teaching me new things and calling me higher. Anger and meanness had abounded, but Grace has abounded and continues to abound. 

And to my dying breath, I will hold to the knowledge that God does indeed move the world for people. It is as though for just a little bit, you are the axis. The center of it all. The apple of God’s tender eye. And in the knowledge of those moments, I found Him. And I will never, ever give Him up. 

Update: Another good run. Tired from the exertion already put in. I must’ve had a lot to mull over because at one point, I was talking out loud. Shouting, actually. Weird. Luckily, no one was around. But I think I came to a good decision: I’m going to get some froyo. By myself. Yum. 

TH Archives:
Day One
Day Two
Continuing Saga 
Week Four
Race for the Run

It’s the last day of Sucktober. Good riddance.

I’ve heard it tossed around a number of times that October is the worst month of the year. I think it beats out February only because the latter is shorter by three whole days (except for this coming one) and it has that lover’s holiday that lies just about smack in the middle of it (aka eat-black-noodles-with-your-other-slowly-depleting-single-friends day. I meant to say that the number of said friends are depleting, not the friends themselves.)

Although it might be safe to say that I am depleting.

My resources, my resolve, my resilience… my ability to make sound decisions and stand by them… my ability to stay at school until I finish my work (I run out of here as fast as I can nowadays. Crazy, eh? Times have certainly changed.) But to be fair, it’s not all Sucktober’s fault. But nonetheless. I will persevere. And. 

I can’t wait to say goodbye to Sucktober.

So follow me on this spontaneous dirge to the month that threatened to suck the life out of me and you (because I’m sure Sucktober sucked for you too. It’s like a natural law.)

They’d say that “thirty one days hath Sucktober,” but you
Would stay around forever if you could, lurking
In the silent spaces of the night, clinging to the haze 

Between darkness and self-pity. You broke the branches
Off my friend’s dogwood tree, broke the spirit of
Philosophers and teachers and friends and students and 

interrupted the power in my sister’s entire apartment complex 
For two whole days. Not to mention how you left me shivering
In my own apartment. In Virginia. Because of you, Sucktober, the vistas of

Shenandoah will never be the same. In you, I saw the 
Culmination of my weak decisions piling up into the weakest one of all,
And in the buzzing of my space heater

I did not care. With your passing I will also let slip 
Memories of angst and unhappiness at a too-soon, too-sudden snowfall,
And the fears that I might not make it to the next break.

I prayed for you today, with my family of girls, thankful that I am witnessing your
Dying gasps and hoping that I will remember that you weren’t all so bad
And that when you roll around next year, we can pass as acquaintances, 

Cordially, with as minimum eye contact as possible.

—

Ha! And with a few deliberate line breaks, it looks like a respectable poetic elegy. (Note key words.)

Good riddance, Sucktober. Smell ya later. 

So it snowed in October. In Virginia. I am not happy. 

And on the day it snowed, my heat disappeared (turned out that a part needed to be replaced.) It was a cold night. I am fortunate to have many space heaters to keep me warm. People who have to live routinely without heat crossed my mind. The homeless in NYC. The heatless in Seattle. (OK, I’m stopping myself.) I started to wonder how it must feel like to freeze to death… not the physical experience, but the emotional one. To be huddled all by yourself… it’s painful to think about. 

If you had a choice of being born anywhere in this world, where and when would it be? (Someplace that has heat, perhaps?) I mean, purely speculative, since we all know that messing with time/space/destiny/whatever is not really probable. But if you had an alter ego with whom you must eventually swap bodies with (this is a lot more probable than the other statement), where would you have them be born? Personally, I don’t think it really matters… I like to think it’ll be interesting to see how life throws its cards out. I would, however, prefer to be born in a nice hospital. High-tech. Clean and starchy. Nice doctors. WiFi. (So my baby hands can write emails.)

And while we’re there, perhaps a first world country besides America so I can grapple with different first world problems than I’m dealing with now. Like not being able to get on a WiFi network. 

It’s said that the best way to get to know a person is to know their choices, and how they made them. Maybe this is revealing to me that as much as I claim to be ok with discomfort, I really prefer to think I’m protected, covered, backed up. You know. Not protected in the “I’ll-save-you-in-the-back-alley-with-my-macho-skills” protected, but in a different sense. In this case, the knowledge that I don’t have to fend for myself. That if something happened, it would be ok. That I wouldn’t have to worry about my own safety, or my own development, because someone would be backing me up. Someone who shared the interest that I might have at the time: staying alive. In the end, I know I’m driven by my desire for knowledge and my craving for peace. But perhaps I’m more coddled than I’d like to admit. 

But if I really had the choice to take a pen and rewrite my past, reaping the benefits of academic, social, physical, and spiritual health, I would ask for the best in all categories. I’d like to have access to not only the best minds, but the best mentors. No allergies. Friends who will teach me how to be a better person. Spiritual fortitude and leadership. And if I wanted to change the world, maybe I’d coincide my life with those of other Influentials. 

And then I think of Jesus. 

Sitting in the realms of glory, as He looked with His eyes into the future, in all the ways it could be played out, in all the ways He could have arranged things, He chose a barn. Hay. Animals. Cold. He chose to be born out of wedlock. He chose Nazareth. He could’ve looked out for Himself just a little better. Averaged it out a bit. Even just one notch. 

The differences between His decisions and my own inclinations strikes me. His lack of thought of His own comfort and protection lies in stark contrast to my own self-interested heart. The one that is always comparing and contrasting options to see which would make me the most comfortable. Which would make me better off. Which would make me less compromised in terms of whatever standard I happen to be measuring at that point. 

To me, Jesus presents mankind in its perfection. He is the craving of every heart: not only to know Him and to love Him, but to be Him. To be that person who does not get easily angered. To be that person who loves without dissimulation. To be that person who can be bold and beautiful for God and for others. To be that person who thinks it not beneath him to kneel at the feet of his followers and do the job of a servant. And for it not to be a struggle; it not being an “ok, let’s get this over with so I can talk about the service of humility.” To be at peace with God and with mankind. 

It was His decision to be bruised for us. To choose mockery. To choose to be hung in the most humiliating position in a public place, stark naked. If I had to choose, I would have liked to at least be modestly covered. No. Jesus chose. 

And I’ll never know why. 

I’ll never know what it means to choose that kind of life. And for me, who really, has nothing of value to offer in return. I am Peter, who recoils from the One I hold in highest regard touching my dirty feet. My dirty life. My dirty soul. Don’t touch that. I’ll do it. I’ll get someone else to do it. And yet He has drawn ever the closer, and His grace has abounded where I have abundantly fallen. 

I am reminded again, not only of the character of His love, but the character of His heart. The heart that chose a difficult life, willingly. A heart that did not turn away from the lowest depths this world had to offer. A character I want to emulate, but all my efforts are mere apings.

I can only choose to be loved by this Man. And I choose it. Like Peter, not just my feet, by my entire useless body. But it is enough. I give in. The God of open and closed doors has stood outside mine, and I have opened. And it’s been like a flood.  

We are the people for whom Christ made these deliberate choices. I am the person on which the eye of the Creator is on. You are the one that is loved enough. 

It’s Monday. 

I had gone to sleep with all the intentions in the world to sleep and instead I stared at the ceiling at my fading glow stars, wondering if sleeping in that morning had something to do with my circadian cycles and me not being tired at 11:30pm. When I opened my eyes, it was cold and still 4am and I wasn’t quite sure if I had to use the bathroom. Just as I finally fell asleep again, my alarm rang and I snoozed a few times and when I got up before dawn, I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. 

I didn’t have cereal for breakfast, but I did have a piece of bread with peanut butter and jelly on it folded over itself. I ate it as I walked to school because my car is still in the shop and I was already bracing for my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I wanted to be anywhere but school. 

Well, not really, but that is the stream of the story. 

Before school started, I had an email in my inbox that (for the fourth time) rudely told me that I was pretty much not important, and if I had any questions about that. I hit reply and said, “Nope, I think all my questions were answered pretty clearly. Thanks.” And hit send. 

First period, the kids were squirrely and squirmy and wanted to delay the start of the lesson as long as possible and because I felt sorry for them and for myself, I let them. We talked a little, learned a little, laughed a little, complained a little, and prayed. A lot. I love them. A lot. 

For lunch I had a tiny piece of hamburger bun (I don’t know why they make hamburger buns that tiny. There’s no burger in the world except in munchkin land that would fit in such a tiny hamburger bun) and I had a gross piece of fake lunch meat and a gross piece of getting-old baby swiss on it. No condiments. No vegetables. No flavor. I washed it down with Corn Pops that I ate out of a red plastic cup and a little plastic spoon. 

I was totally feeling my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I’d rather be in munchkin land (not really.)

A few periods later, my study hall students started to come in. They were late, as always. Out of uniform, as always (because I tell them to “come straight from the gym!” because I know these minutes are precious). Giggly, as always. One of them had a fart machine. It wasn’t just his butt. (Apparently, there’s an app for that.)

I was eating a caramel apple that one of my students gave me (it was from a barn party we had the previous night–commerical packaged) from out of his bag. I took it because I felt sorry for myself and I thought an apple would help. As I was eating it, another student is telling me his story about an exciting decision he is about to make on Friday. I ask him if he’s about to ask a girl out and he thinks I have read his mind. He tells me how he knows he shouldn’t date in high school but he’s going to do it anyway and if I would still give him my blessing and if he could still tell me all about it. I am grumbling to myself about how men are stupid and silly and how they will break any girl’s heart and not think twice about it while she’s agonizing and crying over it. In my office. I tell him he is free to make his own choices and that I don’t give relationship advice once things have begun, but that I will listen and nod. He says he wants more but I know better. 

I also should have known better than to eat a caramel apple on a stressed out stomach because right after teaching my college-level class, my stomach is speaking to me in not-so-loving tones and I am worried because I have a margin of 5 minutes before I am picked up to go to pick up my car which apparently almost caught fire at the shop while something very routine was being fixed. I am in the bathroom having a very small cold sweat and doing stuff that I am glad wasn’t making all kinds of loud noises. My ride is 15 minutes late and I am pacing around waiting, and wondering if the shop won’t make me pay another 200 dollars for the mistake that was caused while my car was there. I am not worried, although people think I should be. 

I was waiting to complain about my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and I realized that it wasn’t quite so bad. I went to the shop and found that there are honest people in the world, and that trust and auto mechanics are not words that cannot go together. I was happy to find that I was not surprised. There were some yummy sugary cinnamon buns hanging on my door when I got back. There were messages of love and affection and consideration all day. There were dreams and visions that were reaffirmed. There was no couch (I’m expecting one soon) but there were also no crisis. Monday was not the schoolyard bully. 

It was not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. In fact, it was just a day, one day into the five week stretch we have to get through until the next break, and I know I’m entering it expecting to fall apart. But I won’t. Even if I find gum in my hair, or spiders in my shower, torn nails, or stink bugs in my room. Even if my lunch is sad, and my stomach is sadder, and my life challenged in many directions. These few weeks won’t be so bad. After all, I love my job, right? No matter what anyone else may think of it. Even if I fall apart daily. I am put together again. Daily.

I will make it. It will be ok. And tomorrow will be ok too. Come what may. 

And the day after that, if God be for me, who can be against me?

And the day after that, if God’s strength if perfect in my weakness, would I not rather glory in my infirmities, so that Christ may ever be stronger in my life? 

He is enough for me. I won’t give Him up for anything. And no day will take that away. His blessings are fresh and new, every morning. 

Even on Mondays. 

And Tuesdays will be for chocolate truffle brownies, gluten-free style for my kiddies who need it. 

There’s a story that someone told me. He claimed it was true. There’s a girl in his friend’s classroom who spells her name “L-A.” When the teacher meets with the parent on registration day, she asks what “L.A” stood for. The mother, in obvious aggravation, snorts, “It’s pronounced La-DASH-ah. Cuz the ‘dash’ ain’t silent!!” 

This story is yet to be confirmed (being the scientist that I like to think I am, I researched to see how common this name was, or if I could find this mystery woman online, and found an article on snopes instead. I was mildly disappointed.) But just as La-DASH-ah’s “dash” is not silent, thus is my life and loves, and the spaces between. 

Sabbath afternoon is when I found my appetite. It’s nice to have it back. 

Wednesday night is when I found my soul. It’s nice to remember how it felt like to have that peaceful joy. 

Wedged where I left it, untended to, and filed in with the cares that piled on in the past 5 months, it was still intact. 

But I’ve been changed. Subtly, but enough. Enough where certain verses in the Bible ring deeper than they did before. Where certain insights are more than just theological insights or practical insights… but an insight borne about only through empathy. The book of Isaiah touches even closer to the marrow of my Christian experience than before. There whispers somewhere, “Ah! I know how that is now.” It’s like the ground has been turned over and things smell like rain and dirt and life. 

I’m reminded of CS Lewis’ depiction of us as a living house. 

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

We are not cottages. Christ is not a contractor who will only do what He is told. The spaces in our rooms are not meant to be silent. They speak, and they are the epistles that contains volumes of life lessons that are meant to be shared. We are not improvements on the old. 

I’m hungry. 

There’s this story of a little boy and his dad.

The little boy wanted some nice, hot, toasty french fries from McDonald’s. (I promise, I am not the little boy.) So he told his dad, “Dad, I’d like some french fries.” His dad, thinking about the fruitful day that had passed, agreed. “Son,” he said, “let’s take a trip.” The boy got in the car, excited about the prospects of a french fry meal. 

The story continues well. The boy’s dad pulls under the golden arches, and instead of the drive-thru, he parks, and with his son’s small hand in his, they walk into the restaurant. At the counter, with anticipation in his heart of the happiness ahead, the dad orders not just a small fry, but a happy meal (a cheeseburger with no meat, of course) and pays for the food. 

The son is ecstatic.

They choose a booth to sit in, and offer prayer. The boy’s dad smiles as he watches his son happily pop a fry into his mouth and take a sip of apple juice. “Thank you, Daddy!” The dad’s heart is warmed, and wanting to share in the experience, he reaches over for a french fry for himself. To his surprise, the boy thrusts his arms around the tray, and protectively draws it closer to himself.

“No, daddy! These are mine!”

To clarify again, this story is not about me. Well, this is not a “this little boy was me” story, anyhow. Because really, this story is about me. I’ve been so protective over my blessings that I’ve forgotten that everything good was given by God to begin with. That His hand reaching over is not something I should defend myself–or what I have–from.

He doesn’t need my fries.

The reason I have fries to begin with is because He gave them to me. He bought them. He drove me there. He listened.

He gave me a lot more than just fries. He gave me a whole meal. And a toy, to boot.

There’s no way I can protect my fries from God. (OK, so we’re not talking about fries anymore.)

If God wanted, he could have super-duper-amazing-sized my fries that if I tried to eat them all, I’d die.

He could.

And really, what are two fries? To a child, the begin all, end all. A matter of the heart. 

It always feels like it’s a lot bigger than a few fries.  

God took some of my fries recently. And I was not happy about it. In fact, I was a little upset. I felt betrayed. Robbed. Misunderstood. Hurt. Like I’d have to defend my fries from Him. Like next time His hand reached over, I’d flinch. Because He’s a taker. I’m being super honest here. I mean, God has taken some of my fries before, but not like this. What made it different? I’m still sorting through that rubble. 

And I’ve seen many other people struggle through similar rubbles. It’s the same heart-wrenching questions:

Where is God when it hurts?

Where is God when my most earnest, heartfelt, genuine, good-for-the-world prayers aren’t answered?

Where is God when my childlike faith seems to be trampled?

Why would God do that to me?

Why did God take him/her/that away?

I thought I knew the answers to all these questions. And I do. But knowing the answers and really experiencing it is different. And when I say “experience” I don’t mean the experience of knowing it’ll be ok. I’m talking about “experience” as in really, you don’t know if it will be ok.  Sounds intense, doesn’t it? It’s amazing how a thread threatens to break. And all I know is that the only thing that saved me from being shipwrecked was Christ Himself. 

Would it be sacrilegious to say that the picture of Jesus in this story would be someone with a fry in His hand? A cholesterol-free, good-for-you kind?

OK, no. That’s not what saved me about Jesus. What saved me was the reminder of His tenderness. His desire to uplift and care and shelter and defend. His attitude towards little children. His response to Judas’ betrayal. His response to Peter’s betrayal. His walk to the Cross. Those are the things that shook me from throwing my arms around my dinky happy meal. From pouting because I was short a few fries. From feeling hurt that He’s do something like that to me. From believing God was a taker. 

And why? Because I thought what I had was mine. Because I don’t know how to share. I have such a hard grip on the things that I love that I forget that it’s not mine. And because of that, nothing made sense. When God wanted to share, I wanted to horde. When God wanted to teach, I wanted to be the teacher. When the lessons piled on, I took notes but I was still frowning. I wanted to write a banner with “Life is Difficult!” etched on it and fling it around on my little helicopter in the sky.

And when nothing else worked, God left me to my own devices. My own little buoys. My own little sparks. My own little microwave where I can make my own little fries. And you know what? I prefer the real deal. The deep fryer. (I may be stretching this analogy at this point.) And I realized that surrender isn’t something that happens on paper, or in the mind, or via the lips. It’s not a realization. It’s not even a decision. It’s not even a one time deal. Sometimes the lessons come back. Hard. 

True surrender is an action. It’s an experience. It’s something you do. And usually, it’s something you have to learn. This kind of thing doesn’t happen on a sunny deck when everything is going a-ok. 

So I surrender. Again. 

My spiritual life is like the temperate deciduous forest. It has all four seasons. Sometimes the climate changes suddenly. It seems to be cyclical. Over and over again, seemingly the same old thing. But although the change seems repetitive, it’s not the same old tree. Through the seasons, the tree outside my office window has gotten at least 2 feet taller since I’ve been at this school. The one outside the boys’ dorm had a branch split off during a recent storm. And as for me, I endure the seasons, and I come out never the same old me.

I am ever the more grateful for a God who loves me. I am ever amazed and ever astounded and ever overwhelmed. And I am ever amazed at the one who will do anything and everything to see me fall. The one who will hold nothing back, and craft the most well-planned and well-executed three-hundred-pronged attack ever seen. And that’s probably just the first wave.

So here’s to sharing my fries. Not only with God, but with everyone else. Here’s to being a steward with my fries. Here’s to letting God mess around with my fries. Here’s to knowing that it’s not just about fries, but about the things I value most in my life. Friends. Family. My students. Time. Energy. Being blessed. Happiness. Life. Health. Peace.

Here’s to not putting a weak little barricade up.

Here’s to another season with the King. He wants to share. I want to want to share with Him. 

“His master replied, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness!’” Matthew 25:21

Has God ever taken your fries?